All the cabinets are full of food, some labels blurry, vague impressions of brand names, others obvious. There are no sixteen-year-olds hidden inside any of them.

A bit of cereal splashes over the side, all over Steve Carmichael's clothes. The bowl is just resting in his hands, free to grab.

"Just keep looking!!" urges the Winter Carmichael on the phone as the ringing from Eddy grows louder.